Yellow Ribbons
by bowtiesandscarves
Summary: Lima, Ohio. Blaine Anderson was 8 when he found himself drawn to a boy with the most dazzling blue eyes, but he never knew his name. Nine years have passed after he moved away, and he finds yellow ribbons tied on the oak tree where he first saw him from.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is my first Blaine-centric story, which had been brewing up in my head since Season 2 but I was afraid to write it because there wasn't much information given about Blaine back then. However, it is now Season 3 (or post-Season 3, that is) and I was feeling very confident enough to write from Blaine's point-of-view. And so, here it is. This is sort of inspired by the song 'Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree' by Tony Orlando (who is **not** a designer, Blaine). _

_Comments/feedback/suggestions are always welcome :)_

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My family and I moved to Lima, Ohio when I was eight. My dad got a promotion in his company and was relocated to Lima, which was too far for us since we lived in San Francisco. So, we moved. I was excited to move to Ohio. I heard little about it, though. I didn't know what it was like or where it was. But my lack of knowledge about something made it all the more interesting to me.

I've been moving from one state to another pretty much my whole life. I've been through Michigan, Minnesota, Indiana, New Jersey, North Dakota, New York, and Oklahoma before Ohio. I had a scrapbook containing different memorabilia from all the places I've been to. One thing from every place. It's pretty amazing. I used to look at it every night and relive every experience I could remember. From the first time we moved to another state to the first time I've been to Six Flags.

I remember it being a bright and sunny day when we first moved into our new house. Our street was quiet, peaceful, and had plenty of trees in it. It seemed like the typical neighborhood to me. But what stood out was the oak tree standing on a vacant lot. It was the only oak tree in the neighborhood, which I thought was pretty cool. It was quite a couple of blocks away from our house and I had to ride my bike to it, but I didn't mind. The tree drew me in and I was soon spending weekends under its shade, enjoying the cool breeze of the wind and a good read.

I once climbed that oak tree. I was curious to know what I would see from atop, so I got over my acrophobia and climbed it; the sturdy branches supporting my unsteady feet. I held on to the rough and jagged wood and the branches near me as tightly as I could to keep myself from breaking a fall. As I went higher and higher, I saw a clearer view of the neighborhood and the fields beyond. Once I reached the top, all I could see was a breathtaking view. There were birds soaring high above, making them seem closer to the sun with every flap of their wings. Down below, I saw more houses and trees lined along the streets. Everything seemed so tiny, so insignificant. It was definitely a particularly interesting way of looking at things. I saw everything up there. I wanted to stay for a longer time until my dad saw me sitting on the top branch of the tree as he was coming home from work and he ordered me to come down at that instant. He told me never to climb that tree again and I promised to do as he told me, but I still visited it often. It soon became my sanctum.

Our neighborhood was friendly, but my family didn't really make much friends with the neighbors. My mom was a house wife, and she'd spend the days knitting or baking something while my dad was either too busy or too condescending to even bother talking to anyone from the neighborhood. I kept hearing rumors that my family was a group of escaped criminals who moved here from Kansas after my dad broke my mom out of prison for being charged with murder. Which is really sad because that's not even a little bit true. And thinking about that right now, I'm pretty sure that's a Russell Crowe movie.

There were a few children playing in the neighborhood, thus giving me very little opportunity to make friends with other kids my age. I didn't mind at all. I'd just sit under the oak tree and watch the other kids play basketball or tag. I wasn't used to having friends anyway. Since we moved a lot, it was hard for me to make and keep friends, so I made it a habit not to.

Besides, I didn't think I'd make friends with anybody here.

The school was nice and accommodating and I've made quite a few acquaintances. But none too much that I'd have someone to play with. Which, again, I didn't mind at all. I didn't play outside when I was a kid. I spent my free time reading books, watching television, or improving my terrible piano skills. Music isn't very common in my family. At least, in my parents. My brother Cooper and I were basically the only ones who enjoyed music. Our house was quiet day in and day out and the only times you'd hear music would be when Cooper would play his guitar in his room or when I would try to play a record in the living room for about two minutes before Dad asks me to turn it off since it was distracting him from whatever it is that he'd be doing. I didn't even know what he did for a living. It was my understanding that kids aren't supposed to know what adults were thinking or doing, even if they were their own parents. My dad made sure I knew that.

Like any boy my age, I wasn't interested in girls. I used to say they were icky whenever my dad asked me if there was any girl in school that I liked. He always had that hopeful glimmer in his eyes whenever he'd ask me about them and he would look disappointed whenever I told him that I wasn't interested. My mom used to say that I'll probably grow out of it since it was normal for boys my age to feel uninterested towards the opposite sex, and it was a brief source of consolation for Dad.

But I have this curse of discovering things about myself by accident.

It was a bright and sunny Saturday. I remember that memory vividly. It was the perfect day for biking around the neighborhood, and I decided to visit the oak tree and read _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer._ Everything was peaceful and there were birds chirping, making music in the air. The soft green grass tickled my legs as I stretched them out into the open. The sunrays seeping through the leaves from above me and provided me with enough light to read. The gentle breeze of the wind caressed my face and blew gently through my hair. It was a perfect day.

I thought I was alone in that part of the neighborhood when I heard a man's voice not too far away from where I was sitting. I leaned forward a bit and looked both ways of the street to see if there was anyone there. I squinted a little and to my right, I saw a man wearing a cap and a checkered shirt. It was rare to see adults on the street. I grew curious.

This man was with a boy, a small boy, probably my age. The boy was riding a bike and the man, who I presumed to be his father, was guiding him by holding one of the handles of the handlebar as the boy pedaled slowly. Once he was starting to pedal faster, his father let go of the handle and clapped his hands as he smiled proudly at what his son had accomplished. I wished my dad was like that. My dad never taught me how to ride a bike. It was my brother Cooper who taught me, and I don't think he was very fond of me. In a way, I was slightly jealous.

The boy riding the bike passed by me and I tried to get a good look at him, but he was looking straight ahead. I was only able to get a look at his profile. I found myself gazing at him when he finally looked at me. It was the first time I saw his face. His skin was pale and he had rosy cheeks. His lips were thin and red and his eyes were… well, how do I begin to describe this… his eyes were stunning. Even from where I was sitting, his bright blue eyes stood out from all his other features. His were the most beautiful eyes I've seen.

I only got to look at him for about five seconds when he lost his balance and he fell off his bike, his hands faced down on the ground as one leg was still on his bike and the other was trapped under. He glanced at me before his dad came running towards him in panic, and he turned his head to look at his dad. I wanted to go out there and help him, but I didn't want to be too nosy.

The boy tried to push away the bike that has fallen on him. His father came to his aide and lifted the bike before pushing it away and cupped his son's face with his hand as he asked him repeatedly if he's okay or if anything hurts. He said he's fine and that he his leg just hurt a little, but he was fine. His eyes met mine and I looked away, opening my book, pretending to read, when not a single word registered in my brain after that.

That night, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned, but sleep eluded me. I kept thinking about the boy with the bright blue eyes. And I kept thinking about why I was thinking about him. I was feeling something I knew I wasn't supposed to feel. I was terrified. I kept telling myself that it was probably just a part of growing up, as Mom would've put it. But somehow, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Morning came and I went to school as usual, keeping the strange encounter with the boy to myself. I knew it would've been better that way.

I went to my classes, but I still couldn't stop thinking about him. It was weird. I tried to do my best in school, but I was distracted. I usually paid full attention to every word and detail in discussions, but that day, all I could think of were those dazzling blue eyes.

As the day wore on, school had ended and it was time to go home. Then, something strange happened. I saw him again. I should've known he went to my school. I didn't know why I hadn't seen him there before. But something told me that the reason I saw him was because I was looking for him.

He was standing at the other end of the hallway and I felt my stomach churning. I knew he could see me because I felt him looking at me. And sure enough, he was.

I gave him one last glance before looking away. I felt my face flush red. Something was definitely wrong. I knew I shouldn't have felt that way. I just knew it was wrong and whatever it was, it wasn't going to go away. It wasn't just something that came with growing up. It was different. And I wanted it to go away, no matter how good it felt.

So, I turned around and walked the other way, trying to get him out of my head.

The following months, I spent more time under the oak tree. I would see him riding his bike on the street alone and I would watch him, pretending that I was reading my book. But in all honesty, I don't think I've ever finished a book under that tree.

Day after day, after school, on the weekends, I would sit under the oak tree with a book in my hand and wait for the boy to pass by even though I knew I shouldn't be waiting. But I kept waiting anyway. I kept waiting and waiting until I heard the sound of rubber wheels against the asphalt ground and I knew that it was him. I tried not to, but I couldn't keep myself from looking at him. And strangely enough, he would glance at me. We could've talked, could've introduced ourselves, but instead, we settled for exchanging glances.

Everyday, I was there. And everyday, the oak tree gradually grew on me. Figuratively, that is. My dad would ask me what I was doing under that tree when I could be doing something else, and I kept telling him that it was a good spot to read a book. He said I could get bitten by something and that I should just stay inside, but I didn't care.

We lived in Ohio for six months until my father was relocated again and I was relieved. That meant I didn't have to see the boy again and I wouldn't feel that weird feeling in my stomach anymore. I had a choice whether or not to sit under the oak tree and watch him pass by. If we moved, that meant I wouldn't have a choice anymore. And I was more than happy to leave and go someplace else like Chicago or Alaska. Anywhere but here.

I wanted to forget about him and his pale skin, his thin red lips, his pointed nose, and his bright blue eyes. And so we left Ohio, leaving an empty space in my scrapbook.

In the next nine years, I've lived a life of normality. Or what I could pass for normality. I tried to forget all about Ohio and the very short time I had lived there. I've stopped putting things in my scrapbook, knowing that if I see the empty space, I would remember that boy again.

When I was 12, I still haven't showed any sign of interest towards girls, and I didn't know it was such a big deal to my dad. I tried looking at girls in my school and I tried to search for any signs of attraction towards any of them, but I got nothing. Then Dad started introducing me to his coworker's daughters. They were pretty and nice, but I still felt nothing. The less I showed interest towards them, the more my dad worried. And it worried me.

Sometimes, I would sneak out of bed and go outside my parents' bedroom where I would listen to their conversations about me. I didn't really understand what they were talking about. But my dad kept telling my mom something about putting me in a closet somewhere and I wasn't so sure about what he meant by that. Could it have been literal, or a figure of speech? So, I asked my brother Cooper what it meant.

I regarded Cooper as a genius. He knew much about everything. I just didn't understand why his teachers gave him low grades when he's actually really smart. He taught me a lot of things. He taught me how to light a match, he taught me how to hold a cigarette (but never actually lit it for me), he taught me how to whistle, he taught me how to blow a bubblegum, he taught me how to ride a bike, he taught me how to T.P. a house, and so much more. When I asked him what Dad meant when he said he'd keep me in a closet, he laughed and said that it was nothing I should worry about. But it sounded like something I should be concerned with. I mean, why would he want to put me in a closet?

I realized there was a lot I didn't know about myself when one day, one of the kids whose older brothers rode motorbikes and smoked cigarettes in school started calling me 'fag'. I had no idea what that word meant, but judging by the laughter of the other kids around me, I knew it wasn't a good thing. I went home that day, curious to know what that word meant. I wanted to ask Cooper, but he'd just say it's nothing I should be worried about, just like he always tells me. I wanted to ask Mom, but she went grocery shopping. The only person left was Dad.

I entered Dad's study that afternoon and he greeted me with a warm smile. I loved seeing my dad smile. For some reason, it made me feel better. So, seeing that he was in a good mood, I went on to tell him about my encounter with the kid at the playground that day. I asked him what 'fag' meant and his smile slowly started to fade. I saw that he wasn't pleased with it, so I stopped talking and waited for his answer. He just looked at me sternly and just like that, the man who was smiling at me a minute ago wasn't the man I was standing in front of anymore.

He told me to ignore that word and never to ask him what it meant ever again. I nodded my head and promised. But if I wasn't allowed to ask him, I was allowed to find out myself, right?

I pulled out the dictionary from our bookshelf in the living room and searched it. As I flipped and turned the pages, I didn't know what I was going to see. I didn't know if it would reveal something about myself, or if it would be an irrelevant word that some dickhead threw my way just because he wanted to.

And then I saw it. My heart pounded as I read the description. I was nervous and I didn't know why, but in hindsight, it was probably because it was so close to the truth. Or maybe it was the truth. The truth that I was ready and willing to deny if I had to.

I refused to believe I was gay. I denied and rejected every theory I've been having about myself after this revelation. It was impossible, improbable, and most of all, unacceptable. To me, to my family.

I thought about what my father would do. He would flip out, sell me to a barren couple, or keep me in a closet, like he said he would. And my mother? She would probably have a heart attack. And Cooper. He'll probably disown me as a brother.

For the next few days, I tried my best to keep what I found out to myself. But the more I thought about it, the more I couldn't sleep. It distracted me from school. I lost my appetite to eat. I barely spoke to anyone. The teachers probably suspected something because before I knew it, I was sent to the guidance counselor's office.

The guidance counselor was a nice lady who was very cheerful and it was somehow comforting. She asked me if I was having any trouble at home with my family, to which I said no. She asked me if anyone was bullying me and I also said no. Although, I didn't know what could qualify as 'bullying' at that time.

I wasn't so sure if she would be understanding of what I was about to say to her, but I gave it a shot anyway. I told her about what I had found out. I told her that I was scared if I was really gay, because it seemed as real as I could see her. She listened all throughout my pathetic narrative, which I was grateful for, by the way. She didn't speak until I was finished. She showed no contempt, whatsoever, as I expected she would. She just smiled at me and told me that it was okay. That it was normal for me to feel that way and that there was nothing wrong with it. She said that some people might not be as accepting of it as others, but I just had to learn to live with it, because that's how people are. I felt like crying at that time. I always thought I was different. But not this way. Not when I could be _killed _for being this kind of different. I realized that there was a whole population of people who are strongly against people like me. And that just… it really sucks.

She told me that I should tell my family. I wanted to, but I didn't know how. I didn't want to upset my parents. They've given me so much and I could only give them so little in return. And then all of a sudden I find out I'm gay and I could only imagine what it would be like for my parents to live with such a disgraceful member of their family.

She said that I just had to be honest with them and they'll accept me. I doubted that, and she probably saw that I did. So she told me that I should take my time and tell them when I'm ready.

When I was 14, our school had a dance. It was the first time I would ever have been to a dance and I wanted to go. I wanted to experience it. So, I told my parents and they were ecstatic. Especially my father.

On the night of the dance, my dad made me borrow my brother's tux and applied more gel to my hair than I usually did. I looked like the love child of Elvis Presley and James Bond, in some universe where Elvis didn't get married and James Bond was gay.

I was excited to leave, but whenever my parents would ask who my date was, I told them to stop asking because it was embarrassing. They seemed to have gotten off my case and I was relieved. It's not that I was embarrassed, but because I was going to the dance with a very good friend of mine, Paul. Paul was also gay and he had recently come out to his parents when he told them that he was going to the dance with me. It wasn't a romantic thing. I didn't have feelings for him, and I was pretty sure he didn't have feelings for me, either. But it wasn't a custom for a boy to go to a dance with another, so it was kind of like a date.

Anyway, I was waiting for him in the parking lot and his parents dropped him off there. His parents were nice folks. They seemed to be very accepting of their son's sexuality, and it was something that I wished my parents were. It's something I wish every parent was.

The dance was great. Aside from the fact that we didn't really dance at all and that we had to keep our distance from each other most of the time to avoid suspicion, it was a great night. As the night wore on, Paul and I talked. He told me that I should come out to my own parents, too. But I said that they weren't as accepting as his. That not everyone was open-minded enough to see that there are more than just them. That there are people like us, too, who aren't any different from them, that we're nothing more but human, just as they are. Then I realized that my parents were going to find out soon enough, and what other night would be better to tell them than the night when I went to my first dance with a guy?

So I went to my parents' bedroom that night, hoping that they're still awake because I honestly just needed to get it off my chest. Fortunately, they were still up reading books. They asked me what was wrong, and I told them that I needed to tell them something.

My mom was… well, she seemed neutral to my announcement. She seemed a bit teary-eyed, but she still looked neutral, nonetheless. I was glad, in a way. Even though she didn't say anything, at least she looked okay with it.

But my dad looked furious. He looked like I had just told him that he lost his life's savings. Which I thought he would rather have dealt with than me being gay. He then put down his book on his night drawer and got up to his feet. He told me that I was mistaken; that I was still young and I could still change. He told me that I should not entertain such thoughts as that about myself. He sent me to my room and put me to bed. As he turned off the lights and closed my door, I knew I was supposed to be able to sleep and feel peace. I knew that by this time, I should be sleeping knowing that when I wake up tomorrow, nothing would change between my dad and I. But I didn't. All I felt was this pang of pain in my chest. I knew I was gay. I was absolutely a hundred percent sure that I was gay. I knew I would never change. That from here on, I will never change.

I cried myself to sleep that night.

Over the years, I've learned to accept myself completely and wholeheartedly. I've read several articles online about accepting one's sexuality, and it was a great help. I've read about people who have gone through the same things like me and it really gave me hope that there are people like me who are still out there and who are still trying to be accepted by their families, especially their fathers. I knew there were people who I could relate to, but my dad didn't like it when I tried to meet people like me. We had an unspoken agreement to never try to change me as long as I don't flaunt my sexuality to his face. My mother is okay with discussing it with me, and so was Cooper, until he moved out of the house to start his acting career. But up until this day, my dad still isn't okay with it. He's improved, though. Instead of voicing out his resentment and disgust, he just keeps to himself. And I guess in a way, I grew more and more distant from him.

So, now here I am, 17 and still quite the same Blaine Anderson as I was 17 years ago.

Remember when I said me and my family moved a lot? Well, we're still doing that now. My dad was relocated. Again. And this time, I think it's permanent. I'm sick of moving and moving and never even getting the chance to get to know the place and the people before he gets relocated again. It would be nice to live real for a change. To live in a place where I could say 'this is where I live' not 'temporary resident'. And this time, it's somewhere we've been to before.

Lima, Ohio. The last time I've been here was nine years ago. I have to be honest, it feels good to be back. I've been living in the noisy, busy city for a long time now that I have somehow forgotten how it feels like to be in a quiet and peaceful environment. Back in the city, I could barely hear myself think. New York is fantastic, but it's nice to isolate myself from the noise of the cars and the sound of people chatting noisily in the streets.

Just as I've been before, I'm excited to move to Ohio.


	2. Chapter 2

I look at my old room and I'm hopeful that I would be able to call it 'my room' for a longer time. It hasn't changed at all, which would make sense since nobody's been in here since we moved out. I think it was wise of my parents for not selling this house. I like it here. Compared to the smoke and the noise in the city, this is where I picture myself being at home more.

My room has light brown walls with striped a darker shade of the same color. I chose this color because I didn't want anything too bright or too neon because it would really just give me a massive headache at the end of the day. Besides, it would look like the bedroom of a teenage girl from the 90's.

I have boxes piled up on the floor marked with categories sorting my belongings. I look forward to personalizing this room to make it look like someone is, in fact, living here and that someone will be living here for as long as he wants to live here.

I walk to the window near my bed and I watch the houses on the other side of the street and the trees paved along the sidewalk. I've forgotten just how many trees this neighborhood had, which is quite a lot. Every house has at least one tree in its front yard or in the sidewalk in front of it. But unsurprisingly, ours doesn't. As much as I love trees, I find it amusing that we don't have one. It's a metaphor of how empty this family is.

On the house just across the street from ours, I see an old man sitting on a rocking chair on their front porch as he sips something from a cup. Coffee or tea, presumably. He sees me by my window and smiles; a warm and welcoming smile. I don't remember seeing him before, but I can tell that he remembers me. The thing is, it's been so long that I don't remember much from what happened here, or the people that I've met. I give him a slightly unsure smile. For all I know, he could be a serial killer, and I could just be painting a target at the back of my head.

"Blaine!" I hear my mom's voice calling me from the living room. I look at my open door, my body still facing the window.

"Yeah?"

"Come help me unpack these!"

I sigh and march my way downstairs where our living room looks like a tornado has just passed by it. It looks horrible. Everything is disarranged; the chairs are facing the wrong way, the TV is on the floor and is still disconnected, the coffee table doesn't look like a table at all since its parts have been disassembled to make more room in the moving truck, and there are boxes lying _everywhere_.

My mom's in the kitchen and I walk towards her, looking at the boxes on the dining table, which we left here when we moved. It's gathered dust, despite the fact that we left it covered, and a couple of spider webs underneath. All our utensils, plates, and glasses are in the boxes. Our food has been thankfully stored in the fridge because if there's one thing that's worse than having a horrible living room, it's spoiled food.

"Help me put these in the cabinets, sweetie." Mom says and takes two plates from a box before wiping them with a dish towel to transfer them to an open cabinet. I decide to speed things up a little by wiping all the dishes first. Once I'm done, I take two plates in my hands and just as I'm about to put one in the cabinet, I lose my grip and it almost breaks into pieces against the floor, but luckily, my feet were at the right place at the right time and act as safety cushions to the plate. My dad walks in right on cue and sees the mess I could've made.

"Hey, be careful with those, would you?" he says in his usual stern voice. I ignore him and sigh in relief as I stoop down to pick the plate up, careful not to move my feet as I do so. I wipe it clean once more and put it safely in the cabinet along with the other one. I take the other plates, two at a time, and put them in the cabinet. I can feel Dad's eagle eyes watching me, probably waiting for me to mess up so he could scold me and yell at me, because I know it gives him a great amount of satisfaction. My dad wasn't always that way. He used to be so sweet and loving to Cooper and I, and we were both so affectionate to him, in a manly way, that is. But just as everything does, he changed. After I had come out to him, our relationship has drastically shifted from father and son to father and strange adopted son. He was sterner, stricter, and more heartless than he'd ever been to me. Luckily, Mom hasn't changed a bit since I came out, and I'm incredibly thankful for that. But whenever she tries to talk about my sexuality in front of Dad, he'd give her a sharp glare and she'd buckle underneath his power. Sometimes, he'd say something hurtful, but God forbid I show any emotion because he'd flip out on me. There are times when I'm on the verge of reaching my breaking point, and I feel like hitting him in the face. But he _is_ still my mother's husband, and he's still my father. So, I try to set a boundary between respect and my rights as a person and as his son.

He walks over to Mom and I turn my back to him, pretending to arrange the plates. "Have you seen my toolbox?" he asks Mom.

"It's in one of the boxes in the living room. Why?" Mom says and puts down the box of plates that I have emptied on the floor. I turn around, but avoid eye contact with Dad. I remove about four glasses out of a box and wipe them with a dishtowel.

"I'm gonna set up the mailbox. Everyone here has one."

Yeah, and everyone here also has a tree. I don't see you planting one.

"Oh, well that's great, honey." Mom smiles sweetly at him before he walks to the living room to find his stupid toolbox. Mom gives me a look and I look at her in confusion. Whenever Dad's around, I do my best to keep quiet and say as little as I possibly can. She must've been catching on.

"What?" I ask her, removing more glasses out of the box.

"You know what," she says and takes out a plastic container filled with spoons, another filled with forks, and another filled with knives. "Just talk to him."

"And what? Have him put me up for adoption?"

"Blaine."

"It's pointless, Mom. You saw how he reacted. And it's been years, can we not talk about this anymore?" I realize that my grip on the glass I'm holding is almost tight enough to crush it in my hand.

Mom sighs and begins to wipe the spoons first before looking at her upside down reflection on each one. I find myself running out of glasses to clean and I need something to hold right now because I might just knock this table over. I see the boxes of Mom's fine china and think I should start wiping them, too. But I decide against it because they're so fragile I might break them with my mind.

"Blaine, we just moved into a new house—"

"We've been here before. It's not _that _new."

"—and we're starting over. Which means you both need to start over, too."

As metaphorical as that sounds, I just don't see the point in starting over with him. It is impossible to get along with that man. Once he's made up his mind about you, you could never change it back. And if he wants to play that game with me, then fine. If he can't see me as his son again, then I can't see him as my dad anymore. Sure, biologically, he'll always be my father. And DNA will always prove that. But this is far beyond what science can define.

I hear a rummage through the boxes in the living room and the sound of tools clanking against each other. "Found it!" Dad announces as he lifts his toolbox up like a trophy and goes out the door to start his new mailbox project. Because he just can't handle being different from everyone else.

I give out a long, deep sigh and put down the dishtowel on the table before washing my hands. "We'll see what happens." I mumble and I feel my mom's hands on my shoulders, squeezing them gently. I know she wants things to go back the way they were. But there are some things that you just can't change. I can't change myself no matter how hard anybody, especially my dad, might try.

And I'm not even the least bit sorry.

0o0o0

I've read about McKinley High on their website the moment my mom told me I'll be transferring there. They seem very accommodating and all; I don't think I'd have any trouble adjusting to their system. I've been transferring schools as early as I've been going to school and I don't think this is going to be any different from my previous transfers.

After having stale cereal for breakfast, I grab my messenger bag from the couch and announce that I'm going to school as I walk out the door. Mom's in our front yard, planting new flowers on the dark brown earth to perk up our house and blend in with the others.

Oh, yay. I'm sure that'll go well with our new mailbox.

"Bye, sweetie. Have a great day at school," Mom says and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I try not to look so averted because I really don't need to be treated like a six-year old on his first day of school. "Don't let them get to you, okay?" she mumbles.

To be honest, I'm quite surprised to hear that from her. Don't let _what _get to me, exactly? Don't let their taunting get to my head once they find out I'm different? I don't think that's gonna be a problem. I'm an expert at not letting things get to me. But her concern is moving, and I give her a warm smile in return.

I walk to the school bus stop, which is a couple of blocks away from my house. Of course, I could easily just take my bike to school, but I have no idea where it is and I'd rather be suffering in the awkward and curious stares of my bus mates than be lost.

It's cold in October and I feel the chilly morning breeze brush past me like a ghost. I zip my jacket halfway up and adjust the scarf that is draped around my neck. In a matter of months, it's gonna start snowing. And it's obviously gonna be colder than this. I wonder what winter in Ohio feels like.

I let my thoughts occupy me as I walk to the bus stop in a normal pace. I have about 45 minutes before school starts and I don't see the need for me to hurry. As I draw nearer to the bus stop, I see three people already standing in front of the sign. Two of them are girls. This won't be so bad.

About 8 feet from the sign, I see my new bus mates clearly. One of the girls is a short brunette with bangs just above her eyes. She's laughing at something the boy, a tall thin Asian kid with one strap of his bag slung around his shoulder, is saying. The other girl, one with short blonde hair justbarely touching her shoulders, is standing beside the other girl as she flips a page of the book she's reading.

I approach the trio and give them all a feeble smile before staring out into the open, an attempt to prevent things from getting awkward. The brunette grins widely and brushes past the boy towards me.

"Hi! You must be the new kid! I've heard you'll be going to McKinley today! My name is Rachel Berry and these are my friends, Quinn and Mike." The girl says enthusiastically and extends out her hand. I hesitate a little, but take her hand nonetheless. She's trying to be friendly, and I should be thanking her since she's making things 10 times easier for me.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Blaine." I say and shake her hand. I look over at her friends. The blonde— I mean, Quinn, has already closed her book and is now smiling at me and so is Mike.

"So, where are you from?" Rachel asks me as we let our hands go. I adjust the strap of my messenger bag around my shoulder and grip it tightly. I wanted to say I was from all around the United States of America, but I have a feeling she's asking where I've recently been from.

"New York. Brooklyn, to be precise." I say and she squeals.

"Oh, my God. I _love _New York! Well, I've never been there, but one day I will. I plan to be on Broadway someday." She tells me, her eyes glimmering with hope. I can tell that in a small town, it's hard to dream big. Being cooped up here for so long must be frying everybody's brains in boxes. But Rachel seems to be enjoying every bit of hoping for the best, and her optimism is invigorating.

"You don't seem like a New Yorker." Says Quinn, her eyes examining me. Kudos, for being so observant and precise. I smile and nod my head slightly. "Yeah, well… I'm really not _from _New York. I mean, I literally just came from there and I've lived there for about a year or so. But I've been moving from state to state, city to city, for as long as I can remember. I'm originally from California."

"Wow. That's a long way to go. I'm from Ohio," Rachel says and glances at her friends. "Well, we're all from Ohio." She chuckles and I smile at her. It's a little too early in the morning to be this hyperactive. I start to wonder if she's always like this in the mornings. It's like her glands secrete Red Bull.

I hear the sound of an engine humming and I turn my head to look behind me. The school bus arrives and I look up at the windows, occupied by teenagers chatting or looking at us with their earphones on. Only now do I feel a little nervous. I don't know why, I just do. Which is really weird for me because I'm not supposed to be nervous when it comes to these things. I should be used to it by now. But I guess nothing beats the first day stomach butterflies.

The doors open and I see a burly man look at me with judging eyes. His goatee makes him look like the version of Robert De Niro that never got into acting, which is amusing to think about, but at the same time terrifying.

Rachel, Quinn, and Mike step into the bus and I stand there, looking like an idiot as I process the thought of going to a new school into my head. My lungs feel like they've been stuffed with cotton. The driver taps his foot impatiently and I know I'm supposed to get in, but it's like my feet are stuck to the ground.

"Hey, new kid. You gettin' in or what?" the bus driver says and I can feel eyes staring at me. I swallow hard and nod my head as I step into the bus and hope that there are vacant seats left. It's bad enough that I'm new. I don't need to be the kid who stands in the aisle.

I look around and see about 20 or so people watching me with careful eyes. I can feel them read into me, trying to figure out who I am, where I'm from, or why I transferred here. With my hair gelled into a dark swirl and the bowtie around my collar, I know I'll never fit into this crowd of T-Shirt goers and beanie enthusiasts.

The bus begins to move again and I let my hand grip the steel horizontal bar to keep my balance. I can see some people scooting to their rights or to their lefts, occupying more space than they should to prevent themselves from sitting next to the new kid.

I see Rachel, Quinn, and Mike seated together at the back. I'm thinking of sitting with them, but there are already five of them in there, and the seat can only hold five people. I sigh in relief as I find a completely vacant seat. I let go of the pole and slide myself into the seat, moving towards the window. All of a sudden, the butterflies in my stomach are gone, and I can finally breathe.

"Psst," a voice says and I turn my head to the side then to the back. I see Rachel smiling and waving at me like we're a couple of Pre-K friends going to a field trip. I smile back and wiggle my fingers slightly into a wave. She's certainly a breath of fresh air.

I adjust myself into my seat more comfortably and look out the window. We pass by trees, houses, more trees, more houses. It's like we're living in a forest but with paved roads and technology. The grass is most definitely greener here.

We turn a corner and I find this part of the neighborhood familiar. I've seen this road before. I know I have. But my memory is as strong as my will to resist coffee. I squint a little, as if that'll make me remember what's in this road and why I find this, of all places, so familiar.

Just outside my window is a street lined with a few houses that are currently under construction, but most of what I see are vacant lots. The houses look so similar to one another and I can tell that they're all from one construction company. The only thing they differ in is color. There are about four houses being built, with the colors white, flesh, tan, and a bright sunny yellow, the latter which I think belongs in a Disney cartoon show. I don't remember seeing these houses before, and they look like they've only recently started working on them.

We're approaching a couple of large vacant spaces where the dark earth smoothly transitions into grasses of mossy green stretching out into a slight slope as a few baby pine trees are dotted along the brown fences that create a boundary between it and the houses on the other side, which of course, won't be complete without more trees.

And then, I see a tall, large tree about a couple of feet from the sidewalk, the grass concealing its roots. I search my mind frantically for this image in my brain because I could swear up and down that I have _seen _this tree before until it finally hits me.

This was the oak tree where I used to sit under, enjoying the peace and quiet as it provided me with shade from its leaves; the tree that became my sanctum for a good six months; the tree that I once climbed and up to the top and gave me a clear view of the world. Or this part of the world, rather.

I sit upright, my gaze fixed upon the tree, soaking in as much of it as I can before our bus speeds away, leaving nothing but its image imprinted in my brain. I smile softly, seeing that it hasn't changed a bit since I last saw it, with the exception of it growing a couple of feet taller and the yellow ribbons that are now hanging on its branches.

I look at it confusingly before it disappears out of my sight. What were those ribbons doing on the tree? _My _tree? I grow more and more curious, suspicions popping into my head minute after minute. Perhaps there were children who decided to 'pretty' up the tree by putting ribbons. Or perhaps they were playing a game that required tying those yellow laces around the tree's branches. Although, as believable as I want to think my theories are, I know that those ribbons mean something. Something far profounder than silly children's games. But I can't seem to figure out what.

0o0o0

The admissions office was a bit small but large enough that could accommodate a desk and a couple of drawers behind it, a few waiting chairs, and a small television perched on top of a metal drawer against the brown walls that looked much like my bedroom wallpaper. The admissions lady looks friendly, her smile warming up the room that is already lacking of ventilation as I am now sweating underneath my shirt and my scarf has been stuffed inside my bag five minutes ago. I find it a wonder how she's not even breaking a sweat.

I sit on one the waiting chairs and place my books on the chair next to me, wondering how on earth she could stand being in this room when I could barely even breathe. I look up at the ceiling where the air conditioner doesn't swivel and I hold my hand up a little to see if it's working, but no such luck.

"It's broken," the admissions lady says and smiles at me. I have no idea how she's still able to smile in a situation like this. "Sorry about that. We're having the janitors fix it up. It should be up and running in no time."

I force a smile, desperately wanting to get out of here. What's taking that schedule so long?

I begin to tap my feet on the maroon carpet, making a thumping sound that makes the silence in the room all the more obvious. The glass doors and windows that stretch from floor to ceiling make me feel as though I am being watched from the outside, and I am. I see people looking at me while some, bless their hearts, ignore my existence. Some are whispering to their friends as they look at me, probably creating stories to fit my description. I realize now that it's not very common for them to receive new students on such late notice. And it's not a surprise. Lima's a very small city.

"Here it is," the lady says and I stand up to retrieve the paper in her hand, carrying my books in a pile against my chest. I extend my fingers out a little enough to grab the paper between my index finger and my middle finger while preventing my books from falling. "Your first period's Algebra. Better get there as fast as you can. Oh, and your locker number is also on there." She says and I look at the paper in my hand. My first period is indeed Algebra, followed by Physics, Home Ec, and History before lunch. This isn't so bad. Algebra's kind of cool. And Physics sounds okay. At least, _The Big Bang Theory _makes it sound okay. Home Ec should be a piece of cake. And I watch the History channel at times. I should be able to survive the first couple of hours before lunch.

"Where… where can I find Algebra?" I ask, glancing at the paper then at the woman.

"Oh, just go straight down the hallway, make a right turn, go up the stairs, go left, then when you reach the bathroom, stop and the classroom nearest it is Algebra." She says and I give her a blank look before nodding my head as I pretend to understand what she just said.

"Um, where do I find my locker?"

Before she could answer, the bell rings, and I glance at my wristwatch. I look back at the woman, who's still smiling at me. Something tells me she should be working at a Wal-Mart, not in a school.

"Good luck." She says and gives me a pat on the shoulder before sending me off. I walk out of the aquarium-like office and find myself lost in the sea of people heading to and from every direction imaginable. For a small school, the hallways are extremely overpopulated.

I decide to go with the flow and let the crowd take me wherever it's supposed to take me, which is a really stupid idea because before I knew it, the students begin to disperse into their classrooms, knowing exactly where to go, while I'm left here in the corridor, still figuring out where the hell the stairs are.

A surge of panic kicks in and I walk through the hallways, trying to mask my obvious panicking as I keep an eye out for the stairs. The heaviness of the books in my hands is already bad enough as it is. I see classroom after classroom already filled with students eager to learn or eager to leave. I should be in one of those classrooms by now.

I have two minutes before the final bell rings and before I am considered late. I'm mumbling prayers which I never really believed as I turn corner after corner, hoping to see the staircase until I realize that I'm going around in a pattern, going through the same hallway over and over again.

I'm starting to think that this school doesn't even have a second floor.

I go on a different route and I begin to slide my feet every now and then as if I were ice skating. At this point, I don't care anymore if I look stupid carrying six books on top of each other with a piece of paper dangling between my fingers and my bag swinging to and fro as I pick up speed.

Just when I was about to lose hope, I see a godsend sign on a wall with an outline of a staircase that says: _watch your step_. I rush towards the end of the hall and I breathe a sigh of relief as I see the staircase. I clamber up, careful not to let my books fall. The final bell rings and I groan in frustration before I sprint across the hallway to the left towards the bathroom. I hear a faint buzzing sound of voices and I know that there's a classroom nearby.

I see the open door of what I'm hoping to be Algebra class. I nervously rush towards it as fast as I could, sweat beads forming on my forehead and neck. I knock on the door twice with my free hand and everyone's heads turn to me like robots. The teacher, who I believe is supposed to be Mrs. Hagberg, is stout and has short thinning locks of blonde hair. She looks at me and points to the wall clock and I smile at her apologetically.

"I am _so_ sorry, Mrs. Hagberg. I was lost and I kept turning at the wrong corner and—" I begin to explain myself when she holds up her hand and cuts me off. She glares at me for a moment, her palm still facing my direction, before gesturing to an empty seat near the window on the last column of the last row. I nod my head and try to walk as fast as I could to the vacant seat. I could hear a few snickers coming from the back, but I ignore them. I take my seat and put my books down on the ground and sigh for somehow miraculously getting to class almost in time.

Mrs. Hagberg begins discussing the topic for the day, which is the quadratic equation. Nothing I've never heard before. I take a second to catch my breath, tuning out the teacher's voice (something that I've learned to do over the years) and let my eyes wander around the classroom, scanning faces and taking mental notes just in case I'd bump into them in the hallways.

Mike was in my class and so was Quinn. They're sitting a few seats from each other, their undivided attention generously given to Mrs. Hagberg. I know I should be doing the same, but I already know about quadratic equations and it wouldn't hurt to familiarize myself with the first couple of people I'm in class with.

Asides from Mike and Quinn, I see at least two people who were on the bus with me. One boy had auburn hair and was wearing a beanie and sporting baggy clothes. He's making a paper plane and writes down 'Air Bret' on the side. Sitting not too far away from him is a girl with long, blonde hair with a few streaks of blue tied up in a ponytail. The thick layer of eyeliner on the lids of her eyes and the double piercing on her ears aren't quite as suitable to a cheerleading uniform as she probably thinks they are. She's texting behind the pile of books on her desk and I glance at Mrs. Hagberg who's either too busy or too old to notice.

I spot a boy with a Mohawk sitting up front, passing notes with the tall boy in a letterman jacket sitting next to him and they snicker silently as Mrs. Hagberg turns her back towards us and writes something on the board. Sitting behind the boy in the letterman jacket is a girl with dark ebony skin and who's a bit on the large side. Her golden hoop earrings are touching her shoulders as she slouches against her desk, her elbows resting on her closed Algebra book. I can tell that not a lot of people are as into this as Mike and Quinn are, who are both taking notes in the speed of light that I fear their notebooks might burst into flames any second now.

Of all the faces in the room, none are memorable enough to memorize in a day. Well, except for Mike and Quinn, since I've seen them first this morning at the bus stop. There are all sorts of people in this room. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, girls with highlights in their hair, boys with piercings in their ears, people who look hungover, people who look as if they ate **Kryptonites** for breakfast, people who look like they haven't slept in weeks, people who look like they have no idea how they got here… the diversity is remarkable.

Just when I thought I'd scanned the whole room, it appears that I have been mistaken, for there's one more person whose face I still haven't seen. He doesn't seem to be moving. His head is fixed in a position that makes him look like a statue. I would mistake him for a statue, if he weren't writing notes down on his notebook. For some odd reason, I feel intrigued in finding out what he looks like. And it's not because he's practically the only person whose face I still haven't seen in this room. It's because I feel like I know him from somewhere, just from the back of his head.

I know it sounds creepy and it totally is. But I just can't shake the feeling that I know what he looks like. And if I'm right, then not only is this weird and creepy, but it means I've seen him from somewhere. And I have to know where.

He's sitting on the other side of the room, five rows from mine. I don't take my eyes off him, or the back of his head, rather. His neck is of a creamy white complexion and his hair is of a mousy brown color. I stare at him, avoiding blinking because I fear that if I do, I might miss my chance.

"Hey dude," the boy in front of me whispers and I look at him, gently startled by his voice. "Sorry. Uh… do you get any of this?" he shows me his notebook. In the silence of the classroom, I hear a pen drop and nobody reacts but me. I look at the boy on the other side of the room and he's stooping down to pick something up, and I know now that the pen was his.

For another odd reason, my heart starts to race and the boy who was talking to me earlier is probably trying to get my attention now. I don't know. I don't care. Everything else has been tuned out now because the boy on the other side of the classroom has now picked up his pen and his back is slouched a little, his hands on his desk. It seems as though he knows I'm looking at him because he's turning his head a little to the side and he looks at me. He looks right at me and my breath hitches because I can see his eyes.

Those unmistakable blue eyes.


End file.
